


On Iron Horses Ride

by O4amuse



Series: The Odd Jobs [4]
Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, BAMF Dean, BAMF Eliot, First Time, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, Hand Jobs, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, POV Eliot Spencer, Post-Season/Series 11, Pregnant Parker, Shower Sex, Stull Cemetery, Zombie Apocalypse, only not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot woke all at once, the way he always did. He lay very still for a full minute, letting his heartbeat settle, feeling the sweat cool on his skin. That nightmare had been unusually vivid. And calm, despite his racing pulse. </p><p>   A man in a garden, tall and beautiful. “What about us? What about Earth?”<br/>Twin smiles, summer sun and cool shadows. “They have you.” </p><p>---</p><p>God has gone, leaving the human firewall as the last line of defence - Sam and Dean Winchester, and 'others like you'. But some of those others don't even know the supernatural exists yet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The White Horse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sun in My Mouth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4437359) by [CydSA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CydSA/pseuds/CydSA). 



> Title from Motorhead's 'Born To Lose'

Eliot woke from his nap all at once, the way he always did. He lay very still for a full minute, letting his heartbeat settle, feeling the sweat cool on his skin. That nightmare had been unusually vivid. And coherent. And calm, despite his racing pulse.

_A man in a garden, tall and beautiful. “What about us? What about Earth?”_

_Twin smiles, summer sun and cool shadows. “They have you.”_

Eliot sat up on the sofa, swinging his feet to the floor, grounding himself. He didn’t usually dream about gardens and beautiful strangers. Blood and bodies was more common. But for some reason he felt oddly unsettled. He pushed his hair back, rolled his shoulders, and tried to put it out of his mind as he got to work on chopping vegetables.

He had dinner ready by the time Hardison and Parker got back, and a large carafe of coffee ready to plunge. Parker eyed it with longing and he moved it away from her.

  “You know you can’t until after the baby.”

  She flopped into her chair and scowled down at her distended stomach. “Hurry up.”

  “Don’t be talking to my son like that.” Hardison leaned on the plunger.

  “Dammit, Hardison, you always push too fast. That’s how you get gritty coffee, man.” Eliot thumped the laden plates down on the table. “Any news from Nate?”

  “I got an email from Sophie last night. They went to the Cairo museum yesterday.”

  “Ooh, what did they take?” Parker demanded, her mouth full of potato gratin.

  “Nothing, baby, they’re retired, remember?”

  Eliot snorted. “Sophie can’t retire from grifting any more than Nate can from drinking.”

  “Apparently they had a bit of an argument coz she thought one of the mummies moved and Nate didn’t believe her.”

  Parker held her arms out stiffly in front of her. “Braaaaaains.”

  “Don’t joke about zombies, Parker.” Eliot poured himself a coffee.

  She stared. “They’re not real, are they? Are they, Eliot?”

  “Don’t get her wound up,” Hardison complained. “You know she always buys it.”

  “Who says I’m winding her up? You don’t know, man. You weren’t there.” Eliot winked at him over the rim of his mug.

The apartment door disintegrated with a deafening explosion, smoke and debris punching into the room. Eliot heaved the table over onto its side in a crash of crockery, and thrust Parker down behind him. Hardison dived for cover behind the kitchen island. There was a familiar patter of semi-automatic covering fire, then a brief pause. Eliot hissed to get Hardison’s attention and pointed at the cutlery drawer. Eyes wide, Hardison pulled out a steak knife and carefully slid it across the floor.

  Heavy boots moved into the apartment, crunching disintegrated door underfoot. “We know you’re in here, Hardison!” came a muffled yell.

  Parker glared at her boyfriend. “What did you do this time?”

  “Nothing, sweetness, I swear.”

  “Shut up,” Eliot snapped.

He closed his eyes and listened hard. Five men, all wearing body armour that creaked slightly as they moved. Trained, but not together. Ex forces, then, probably mercenaries. Not the mob or the Triads - they took care of business personally. Maybe corporate push-back from one of their past targets. Five men in armour, armed and jumpy, was a tall order. He sighed.

  “Parker, can you get to an air vent from here?”

  “I can try.”

  “I’ll cover you. On my mark. Three… two… one…”

He threw the steak knife. The front intruder staggered backwards with a yell, clutching at his thigh. Eliot combat-rolled from the table to the stairs, whilst Parker scrambled in the opposite direction.

She was well into her second trimester. She wasn’t as quick as she used to be.

One of the men grabbed her by the hair and dragged her sideways, kicking and clawing. He shoved a gun-barrel against her belly and she went very still. Hardison straightened up out of cover, face pale and sweating. He raised his hands.

  “Please, no. Please. Let her go. I’m begging you. Please.”

Another of the men raised his gun slowly, taking aim.

Eliot stood up. He felt light in every limb, weightless, fuelled by distant white-hot fury. These men dared to come into his place and threaten his friends? He would teach them better manners. They couldn’t touch him.

His vision darkened around the edges. Every head turned towards him. A couple of the men winced or shaded their eyes. He walked towards them, very calm, very soft. Guns came up, moving through treacle. The man holding Parker let go and she dived back behind the table. Eliot kept walking forward, until he was standing in the middle of them with a ring of gun-barrels at his head. There was a great still silence in the centre of him.

_Twin smiles, summer sun and cool shadows. “They have you.”_

He smiled. The guns fired. The men fell, limp and lifeless, to the ground.

There was a moment of perfect peace.

  Then Parker stood up, brushing off her trousers, and looked around. “Huh.”

  Hardison leaped round and pulled her into a fierce hug. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m more worried about him.” She nodded towards Eliot.

  He blinked, suddenly feeling tired and heavy. The shadows in the room shifted. “What about me?”

  “Dude, you were…” Hardison let go one hand to gesture inarticulately.

  “Glowing,” Parker said.

  “Glowing? He was so bright I could hardly look at him. And there was a crown.”

  Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

  “Made of white fire. Floating over your head.”

  “Have you overdosed on video games again?”

  “Do I look like I’m lying?”

He didn’t. In fact, Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his best friend so shaken. That could have had something to do with a gun pointing at Parker, of course. He righted a chair and sat down heavily, feeling very tired. Goosebumps crept across his skin and he shivered.

  “Dammit. My coffee.” He gazed sadly at the black pool creeping across the floor.

  Parker gave him an assessing look. “Alec, go get coffee.”

  “What?”

  “Starbucks on the corner. Go.”

  Hardison spread his arms. “Someone just tried to kill me!”

  “He can’t go out,” Eliot agreed, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I’ll make some more.”

  Parker pulled a chair round to face him. “He can do it. You stay there.”

  “I don’t think Hardison knows how to make coffee.”

  “Hackers run on caffeine, man,” Hardison said, hunting through the cupboards.

  “We should be looking after you,” Eliot told Parker.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve have a gun pointed at me.” She leaned back in the chair and laced her fingers over her belly. “Tell me what happened.”

  He shrugged. “I got mad. I took them out.”

  “I’ve seen you get mad before. I’ve seen you fight. This was different.”

  Eliot rubbed his face. “I don’t know, Parker, what do you want me to say? I mean, yeah, okay, I felt a bit weird, but-”

  “Weird how?”

  “Light, I guess. Like I was moving faster than the rest of the world. I put it down to adrenalin.”

  “Actually, you were moving pretty slow. They had loads of time to shoot you.”

 “So why didn’t they?”

  She frowned. “They did. Lots. The bullets bounced off.”

  “That’s impossible. I would’ve noticed. And I’m not wearing a vest.”

  “Tell them that.” Parker nodded over his shoulder.

Eliot didn’t want to turn around. Which was odd. He wasn’t normally bothered about viewing his handiwork. For some reason, though, he was afraid. No, not afraid. Concerned. What if he saw what he’d done and couldn’t understand it? The moment itself was strangely soft-edged in his mind. But Parker was watching him. So he turned.

There were five bodies sprawled in various poses on the floor.

There were five heads that had rolled in various directions. The necks were neatly cauterised.

Eliot stared, uncomprehending. He didn’t remember beheading one person, let alone five. And there wasn’t a blade in existence that cut through people so cleanly, cauterizing as it went. It certainly couldn’t be done with a steak knife. Which he’d thrown at someone anyway.

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Parker said calmly.

  “No.” His tongue felt clumsy.

  “Candid camera.” Hardison produced his iPad, brought up the CCTV feed, and handed it over.

Eliot took it in numb hands and watched as the mercs burst silently through the door. Watched them grab Parker as he and Hardison stood up. Watched as he began to glow white, a coronet of fire kindling into life above his head. As he moved forwards, shadows grew and bent away. The men fired and their bullets ricocheted off his light. When he reached the men, a spike of light grew slowly out of his right hand. He turned once, a complete circle. The men fell. Then the light vanished.

   Eliot’s mind was blank. He looked up as Hardison took his iPad back. “You doctored it.”

  “Nu-uh. Even if I wanted to, that shit takes time. I was busy being terrified.”

  Eliot stood up abruptly, into his friend’s space. “Dammit, Hardison, don’t lie to me!”

  Hardison held both hands, backing off. “Eliot, I swear to you I didn’t touch this footage.”

  “That wasn’t me! I didn’t do that!”

  “Okay, man. Okay.” Hardison spoke slow and calm, but his eyes were wide. “It’s alright. We cool.”

  Eliot dragged in a deep breath and forced his temper back down. He pushed his hair back with trembling hands. “I’m going to bed. We can work out who sent them in the morning.”

  Hardison opened his mouth but Parker grabbed his wrist. “Good idea,” she said brightly. “We'll clean up.”

Eliot nodded shortly and strode off down the corridor. He could hear them talking behind them and felt his temper begin to flare up again. He shut his bedroom door carefully behind him, resisting the urge to slam it, and turned the light on in the en suite. He stared at his reflection for several minutes, pulling at the skin around his eyes and tentatively touching his scalp.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he muttered.

He washed his hands in water as hot as the faucet would run, scrubbing with a nail brush. No blood ran down the drain. They seemed clean. He kept scrubbing until they were red-raw.

He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He dreamed of a man in a rose-garden, tall and beautiful.


	2. The Black Horse

  Eliot stared up at the towering building on the corner of 6th and Main. “I didn’t even know the Bank of Iceland had an office in Portland.”

  Hardison fidgeted next to him. “Okay, we’ve seen it. Can we go now? I don’t like standing outside the front door of the people trying to kill me.”

  “Which, why is that again?”

  “Sore losers?”

  “Hardison…”

  “So I might have left a little code in their systems back when I first hacked them.”

  “And that little code does what, exactly? In simple speak.”

  He shrugged. “Collects money. Just a couple of dollars here and there.”

  “How much is a couple of dollars?”

  “Just over $700,000. A year.”

  Eliot sighed. “Dammit, Hardison. You could’ve mentioned this earlier.”

  “I forgot it was there, man, it was more than a decade ago. I guess they just found it.”

  “And then found us.” Eliot rolled up his sleeves.

  “Uh… what are you doing?”

  “They’ll have noticed their goons didn’t check in last night. I’m gonna go talk to them about not sending any more.” He headed across the road.

  “On your own?” Hardison shouted after him.

  “Parker’s busy.”

The lobby was cool and quiet. Eliot wandered over to the reception desk and gave the bored-looking girl there his most winning smile.

  “Hi there. I’m looking for the Bank of Iceland main office.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “In that case…” She looked up and blinked. “Um…”

  He upped the charm. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

She didn’t look charmed. She looked nervous. That was a bit weird. He didn’t usually make women nervous when he was actively trying not to.

  “Bank of Iceland?” he prompted.

  She swallowed. “Um… 10th floor, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

There were a couple of people waiting by the elevators but, for some reason, when the first one arrived and he got in, none of them followed. A couple of them glanced at him and away again. Others shifted uneasily. One clearly decided to take the stairs instead. He’d gotten pretty good at reading people under Sophie’s tutelage and all the signs suggested they saw him as a threat. He punched the button for the 10th floor with more effort than it needed, feeling off-balance.  

  “Hey, hold the doors!” called a deep voice.

A broad shoulder shoved into the closing gap. A man in a black and gray plaid shirt and worn jeans stepped confidently into the lift and pushed the button. Eliot stared at him, paranoia warring with disbelief. The man folded his muscled arms, leaned backwards against the rail, and smiled.

  “Hi.”

  “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Where should I be?”

  “You were…” Eliot ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “In your dreams, right?”

The man said it with a flirtatious wink but Eliot could hear the serious undercurrent in his voice. There was no mistaking - it was definitely the stranger from the rose-garden. He was here. He was real. Eliot briefly wondered whether he was dreaming again. But the man’s presence was far more powerful than it had been in sleep. Every detail was more defined, more believable. There were wrinkles around his eyes, creases in his shirt, and the edge of a bruise showing under his collar. He might stand casually but his well-defined muscles were tense. He stood like a special ops soldier, a vet.

  Eliot took a deep breath, trying to ground himself. “You here to fight?”

  The man grinned, a flash of white teeth and green eyes. “Usually. But not you.” He held out a hand (bloody knuckles, soil under the nails). “Dean.”

  “Eliot.” He shook, feeling the gun calluses and strength. “I’m sorry, I just… It’s been kind of an odd day.”

  “Preaching to the choir, man.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly betraying an edge of nervousness. “Look, I know this is going to sound crazy but you and me… I mean, I came here to…” The elevator dinged and stopped moving. A look of relief crossed Dean’s face. “You got business to attend to, I’m guessing. Maybe we could grab a drink after?”

  Eliot raised an eyebrow. “You following me or hitting on me?”

  “Yes.” Dean lowered his chin a little as the doors slid open. “But I think those guys wanna talk to you first.”

Eliot glanced out of the lift. Six security guards stood in a semi-circle round the door, pistols clasped in sweaty fists. They were all staring at him with wide eyes. Dean leaned in closer, smelling of leather and soil.

  “Need a hand?”

  “I can take them.” He rolled his shoulders loose and stepped out. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way. The hard way ends with your heads in one corner and your bodies in another. Apparently. The easy way has you putting those guns down and keeping on breathing. Your choice.”

The men flicked nervous glances at each other. Eliot’s stomach tightened in anticipation of a fight. He blocked out his first three movements in his head - step right, push Guard One’s gun to point at Guard Six, use Guard One’s body as cover. A prickle of tension shivered across the backs of his hands and his vision narrowed as his pulse picked up. The shadows shifted.

Guard Four laid his gun on the ground with slow, exaggerated movements. He stepped back, hands in the air. One by one, the rest of them followed suit. There was a still, silent moment which was broken by a low whistle from the lift.

  “Nice.” Dean had propped himself against the doors, which were grinding gears as they failed to close.

  Eliot blinked and the wider world came back into focus. He picked up the guns and handed them to Dean, oddly certain the man wouldn’t shoot him in the back. “Take care of these?”

  Dean released the clips with the ease of long practice. Then he thumbed back the hammers. “That oughta jam them solid. Okay, dude, what next?”

  The guards were still staring, wide-eyed and sweating. Eliot pointed at one. “I want to see your boss.”

The unfortunate ‘volunteer’ led them through a set of key-card doors, along a narrow corridor with meeting rooms down one side, and into an open-plan office where fifty people were typing furiously.

  Dean looked around with an affected shudder. “Fuck, I’m glad I never had to work in one of these places. Talk about soul-destroying.”

  Eliot grabbed at the guard’s shoulder, tightening his grip as the man flinched. “Boss. Now.”

  “Mr. Arnason’s office is over there,” the guard quavered, pointing across the room.

  “Go get him.”

The guard stumbled away. Dean bumped against Eliot’s shoulder, a solid warmth.

  “You know he’s gonna call for reinforcements, right?”

  “You still got time to go.”

  “Are you shitting me? I wouldn’t miss this.”

  Eliot glanced sideways. There was a spark of mischief in those mossy eyes. He felt a slight tug in his chest. “Why are you here?” he said quietly.

  “To help.”

  “Help who?”

  Dean’s laughter-lines deepened. He slapped Eliot on the back, his hand lingering. “That's the big question, ain't it?”

A blonde man in an expensive suit came out of the private office, the security guard trailing behind him with a hangdog look. He strode towards them, jaw set and brow low, and the sound of typing around them died away.

   “You are trespassing,” he said, stopping two metres away.

  “You're in charge here?” Eliot asked.

  “I am Ragnar Arnason, Director for the US branch.” The man looked down his nose. “And you are an associate of Alec Hardison, who is a wanted criminal.”

Eliot moved fast. In two steps he had his fist wrapped in Arnason’s shirt. Another two steps and he slammed the man backwards across a desk. The woman sitting there shrieked and pushed away. The wheels on her chair broke and she tumbled to the floor.

  “Sorry,” Dean said cheerfully.

  Eliot leaned in close, dropping his voice to a growl. “You sent men with machine guns to my house.”

  “He stole from us,” Arnason protested, shaken. “We couldn’t get it back, he was too clever.”

  “Shut up.” Eliot’s vision pulsed with anger. He felt hot all over, burning up with rage. Arnason’s eyes went wide and white with fear. “Did you really think shooting my friends would solve your problems?”

There was a thunder of running feet, and the clatter of body armour. The office workers began to scream, diving under their desks or scrambling to the far corner of the room. A sharp smell of rust and rotting leaves wafted through the room. Eliot half-turned, one hand still holding Arnason down. Four men in full tactical gear were lined up behind him, looking down the sights of M4 carbines. Dean stood in the way, arms spread wide. The office light above him flickered and died, leaving him in gray shadow.

  “Welcome to the party.” His voice echoed strangely, a susurration of bloodless whispers.

The strap on a gun snapped and the guard fumbled it to the floor. Someone’s belt broke, dragging his trousers down to his knees. One of the helmet visors cracked, obscuring vision. A gun jammed with an audible click.

  Dean turned back to Eliot and waved a casual hand in the direction of the guards. “They’re all yours, man.”

  Eliot transferred his grip to Arnason’s neck and lifted him one-handed into the air. It took no effort. His blood fizzled through his veins. “Tell them to stand down.”

  “Stand down,” Arnason stuttered, face turning grey and purple. “Stand down!”

The guards dropped their guns and took a couple of steps back, one of them clutching his trousers in place. Eliot lowered the terrified bank manager.

  “I’m sorry,” Arnason babbled. “I’m sorry, I won’t, never again, I swear.”

  “Good.”

Eliot let him go and turned towards the exit. Dean fell in beside him and the guards hastily got out of their way. He paused in the doorway and looked over the room. Most of the office workers were on their knees, peering out from behind desks or cowering against the walls. Arnason slumped against the desk, face pale.

  “If I hear so much as a rumour I don’t like about this bank, I’ll come back,” Eliot growled.

  “You won’t,” Arnason said, tripping over the words. “I swear.”

  “You won’t, either,” Dean said as they made their way out. “For a rookie, you really seem to have a handle on this.”

  “Handle on what?” Eliot snapped, almost staggering under a wave of exhaustion. “What the hell is going on? What's happening to me?”

  “You’re gonna want to sit down for that conversation, trust me.”

  “Why should I? I don't even know you.”

  “Because we’re on a mission from God.” Dean chuckled to himself and walked straight past the elevators. “Those ain’t gonna be working, sorry. Better take the stairs. Where’s a decent place to get a drink around here?”


	3. The Red Horse

Eliot took Dean to a nearby cafe which opened right up onto the sidewalk, giving him good lines of sight and plenty of exit options. Something in him trusted the guy, he didn’t know why, but he wasn’t going to be stupid about it.

  “I’ll get a black coffee,” Dean told the waitress, “and a mocha latte with strawberry syrup. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  “You expecting company?” Eliot said, his shoulders tensing.

  “My brother’ll be along in a minute. I just texted him the address.” Dean put his phone away and leaned his elbows on the table. “So. You saw me before.”

  Eliot folded his arms. “You didn’t seem surprised.”

  “A little bird told me about it. Where was I?”

  “Looked like a rose garden.”

   Dean nodded, as if Eliot was making complete sense. “You must’ve been tagged at the same time, then. I’d apologise but it ain’t exactly my fault. Blame Chuck.”

  Eliot frowned. “Who’s Chuck? And what am I blaming him for?”

  “God. He prefers Chuck these days, apparently. Anyway, he’s buggered off to Mars or someplace for a little family reunion so he left insurance behind. That’s where we come in.”

  Eliot gave Dean a level stare. “You realise how crazy you sound, right?”

  “The last time I tried telling the truth about my life, I got committed. So yeah, I know.” Dean shrugged, muscles bunching under his shirt. “Crazy’s relative, man. Besides, you’re the one who was glowing like a lightbulb back there.”

  Eliot took a steadying breath, fists clenching to keep the edge of panic at bay. “Can you tell me what’s happening, or not?”

  “Sammy’s better at explanations.”

Eliot opened his mouth to demand a straight answer, but was forestalled by the waitress bringing their drinks. A tall man with floppy brown hair and a red plaid shirt stood aside to let her pass, and Dean’s eyes softened fractionally as he looked up (and up) at the newcomer.

  “Sammy, this is Eliot. Eliot, my little brother, Sam.”

  “Hi.” Sam held out an enormous paw with an oddly gentle smile, and sat down. He took a mouthful of latte and nearly spat it out. “That’s disgusting, Dean. What did you order?”

  “Strawberry syrup.” Dean’s face lit up with amusement.

  “I thought we were too old for prank wars, man.”

  “Never too old to screw with you, Sammy.”

  “You’ll have to forgive my brother,” Sam said to Eliot with a long-suffering sigh. “He never really got over being sixteen.”

  Eliot looked from one to the other, eyebrows raised. “Are you guys for real?”

  “Who the fuck even knows anymore?” Dean said, burying his nose in coffee.

  “Okay.” Eliot leaned forwards, his temper shortening. “I have had a bunch of guys with assault weapons try to kill me twice in the last 24 hours, and somehow either beheaded them or… or whatever it was that happened back there. Apparently I keep glowing, and every time I can’t remember exactly what went down. Now, if you can tell me what’s going on, get on with it. If you can’t, I’ve got better things to do.”

  “You’re not going mad,” Sam said softly.

  “I’m not afraid of that.”

  Sam gave him a thoughtful look. “No. You’re like us. ‘Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.’”

  “Nelson Mandela?”

  “Marianne Williamson, actually. You’re afraid of losing control, right? Believe me, Dean and I have been there. We get it.”

  Dean grunted, eyes downcast. “Whatever you’re afraid of doing, we’ve already done worse.”

  “I doubt it,” Eliot growled.

  Dean shrugged. “We can compare sob stories later. Point is, we’re here to help you. And coz we need you.”

  “What do you know about the Horsemen of the Apocalypse?” Sam said.

  Eliot blinked. “I’ve read the cliff notes of Revelations. Death, War, Famine and Pestilence, right?”

  “Right,” Dean said. “Only, the four of them kinda lost the gig.”

  “War, Famine and Pestilence had their powers, um, borrowed a few years ago and we don’t think they ever got them back.” Sam looked uncomfortable. “And Death…”

  “...died,” Dean finished, draining his coffee.

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Eliot said. 

  “Hey, it don’t make sense to me and I’m the one that wielded the frikkin’ scythe.” Dean’s eyes were very dark, focused on some memory. Eliot recognised the look. He’d seen it in the mirror often enough.

  “The point is,” Sam said quickly, “there’s a vacancy. Or there was. One of the last things God did before he left was replace them with a new set.”

  Eliot looked from one brother to the other - Tall and Earnest next to Brooding and Beautiful - and a slow smile spread across his face. “You think I’m the new War? You really are crazy.”

  “Um… not exactly.”

  “Yeah, see, War ain’t dead. Just lost his mojo. You’re something new.” Dean gestured around the table. “We all are. Seriously, when Chuck comes back I’m gonna break his nose.”

  “Dean.” Sam looked faintly exasperated. “You can’t punch God.”

  “Wanna bet? The asshole just disappeared again and left us to pick up the pieces.”

  It was like listening to Hardison talking about coding. Eliot could feel a headache threatening. “Are you going to get to the point any time soon?”

There was a flurry of suddenly displaced air behind him. He sprang out of his chair, dropping quickly into an easy fighting stance, and quickly assessed the guy that had turned up behind him. Tall-ish, with messy black hair, a tan trenchcoat over a rumpled suit, and blue eyes that returned his gaze steadily.

  “Hey, Cas,” Dean said. “Grab a chair. This is Eliot.”

  “Peace,” the man said in a gravelly voice.

  “What are you, some kind of hippie?” Eliot said. The man looked confused.

  “No, he means you,” Sam said. “You’re Peace. The new Horseman. One of them, anyway.”

  “This is Castiel,” Dean said. “He’s an angel, he can tell these things.”

  “Oh.” Eliot glanced from Dean to the newcomer, uncertain. “Are you two…”

  Dean rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone think that? We’re just friends. No, he’s an actual angel. Wings, Heavenly grace, the whole nine. Significantly less douchey than the rest of ‘em, though.”

  “Thank you,” Castiel said, sitting down in Eliot’s chair.

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” Eliot said.

He was so tired his joints ached, and abruptly deeply disappointed. He’d really thought, when Dean first pushed into the elevator, that here was an explanation for all the weirdness. An explanation with a smile that lit up the air. He should’ve known better. As soon as Dean started going on about a god called Chuck, he should’ve walked away. Parker was more than enough crazy for him - he didn’t need to deal with any more.

  “Maybe a practical demonstration?” Sam said, looking at Castiel.

  “Have you finished your drink?”

  “This isn’t a drink, it’s Dean’s idea of a joke.”

  “Your face is a joke,” Dean said, standing up. “C’mon, Cas, let’s go.”

The world seemed to flicker. The sky changed from Portland gray to clear blue. Eliot staggered a little as the ground shifted under his feet, from tarmac to grass. The noise of cars and people vanished. He spun around, dropping into combat stance. Rows of gravestones stretched out behind him.

  “What the hell just happened?” he growled. “Where have you taken me?”

  “Stull Cemetery, Kansas,” Sam said, and there was a tight pain in his voice.

  “Kansas?” Eliot stared. “But… how?”

  Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Like I said. Actual angel. And this little beauty spot is where the power from three quarters of the old guard ended up.”

  “It seemed fitting,” Castiel said, looking at Sam with a slight air of apology.

  “It’s fine, Cas,” Sam said quietly. He straightened up and faced Eliot. “The point is, we’re it. The new Horsemen.”

  “Which is a fucking cosmic joke,” Dean put in. “How many apocalypses have we stopped now?”

  Sam shrugged. “Yeah, well, we started most of them.”

  Eliot looked at Castiel, who was watching him with serious eyes. “You’re really an angel?”

  “Yes.”

And just for a moment, in the depths of that unnatural blue, Eliot felt something stirring. Something ancient and powerful and infinite, lightning and thunderbolts. The hair on his arms stood up. Tension prickled down his spine. Heat washed across the palms of his hands, and he breathed in.

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He shifted his gaze to Sam with an effort. “And you?”

  Sam forced a smile. “Mostly I’m human, with a little demonic taint thrown in. But when it’s needed, I’m the anthropomorphic personification of Chaos.”

  Eliot nodded like that made any kind of sense and turned to Dean, who shrugged. “Entropy. Stuff just breaks down around me. Which, let me tell you, is not okay when it’s my car. Chuck deserves a black eye just for that.”

  “You will learn to control it,” Castiel said reassuringly.

  “Fucking better.”

  “And you said I’m Peace.” Eliot shook his head. “That can’t be right. I mean, War, okay, I could see a case for that, assuming any of this was at all rational. But Peace? I’m a hitter. I've got more blood on my hands than... well.”

  “Yeah, I watched you back at that office,” Dean said. “Here’s the thing though - real fighters, the ones who fight to survive, all they really try to do is end the violence as quick as possible. It’s rare I want to draw a scrap out. I just want it done, with me and Sammy still breathing at the end. Same with you, I reckon. You’ll do whatever it takes to bring things back under control.”

  “Have you heard the phrase ‘the tyranny of peace’?” Sam asked. “It’s how the despots of Sicily were described. And the French Revolution. Escalation of violence, and the use of fear, to control the populace. That’s the destructive face of peace.”

  Eliot felt a cold weight in his gut. “I’m not that man any more.”

  “I doubt you ever were,” Sam said. “But it’s the power you wield now.”

  “I don’t want to. That’s not something anyone should have.”

  “The choice is not yours,” Castiel said gravely. “The next apocalypse has already begun. The power will rise in you until it either overwhelms you or you learn to control it. I know you have already felt this. It is how I found you.”

  “Question is, whose side are you on?” Dean took a step closer, squinting in the bright sunlight. “You said it yourself - who’re you here to help? Coz Sammy and me, we’ve been doing some thinking.”

  “Actually, it was Pratchett’s idea first,” Sam said with a little smile. “ _Thief of Time_ , I think.”

  “Nerd,” Dean said affectionately. “See, this ain’t exactly our first time up to bat. And Chuck did say we were here to protect the world. So we reckon, if we gotta ride, let’s ride against the apocalypse.”

At that moment, the ground around them trembled and several of the headstones cracked into splinters. Dean looked at Sam, who shook his head.

  “It’s not me.”

  “And it ain’t me, and I’m damn sure this don’t count as peaceful. On with the show, I guess.” Dean rubbed his hands together and grinned a touch wildly at Eliot. “How d’you feel about zombies?”


	4. The Pale Horse

The earth began to bulge and break upwards all around them, like giant molehills. Hands and heads struggled through the topsoil, whole flesh and bloodlessly pale. Wordlessly, Dean and Sam drew machetes out from under their jackets and began hacking at exposed necks.

  “It’s like whack-a-mole,” Dean said, catching Eliot’s baffled expression. “Cut off the head. If we can do it before they get out, easier for us.”

  “They’re… I mean, they aren’t…”

  “Grey and oozing?” Dean said.

  “‘Your dead will live, their bodies will rise,” Castiel said solemnly, in between thwacks of what looked like a silver dagger. “Awake and sing, you who dwell in the dust, for you will be covered with the morning dew and the earth will bring out the departed spirits.”

  “Book of Isaiah.” Sam grunted slightly as he kicked free of a grabby hand.

  “Basically, every corpse gets a free facelift,” Dean said. “Which is fucking unfair, if you ask me. Leads to all sorts of misunderstandings.”

  “Misunderstandings?” Eliot looked around at the graveyard. There were a handful of decapitated necks sticking out of the ground like harvested cabbage stalks, but further afield a considerable number of zombies were out and moving towards them at a respectable pace. “We’re surrounded by the walking dead. How d’you misinterpret that?”

  Dean pulled a face as he grasped a head by the hair and shot-putted it into the advancing horde. “First one I met was my mom. Thought Chuck and Amara had brought her back to life, until she tried to claw my face off.”

  “I am sorry I did not respond quicker to your prayers at that point,” Castiel said, stabbing a small girl in a filthy blue dress through the neck.

  “You were a bit busy being blasted across the country by that British bitch.” Dean waved the apology aside with a bloodied machete. “Sam’s just lucky he manifested his Superman powers the second before she shot him.”

  “Speaking of which,” Sam said, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead and surveying the wall of bodies encircling them. “Maybe it’s time to suit up.”

Eliot looked at the horde of bodies, clothes from every era covered in dirt, ripped or rotting, and suppressed a shiver. It was a recurring nightmare that those he’d killed would come back to return the favour but he’d known - he’d _known for a fact_ \- that it was just a nightmare. Not real. Impossible.

The over-sweet smell of spoiling meat and fresh earth filled his nostrils. He wanted to retch, wanted to close his eyes and be back in his flat with Hardison and Parker. He wanted today to start over, without the crazy. He closed his eyes, swallowing down nausea.

They made no noise, the dead. He could hear the swish of cloth, the soft thud of many footsteps, but no moans. No breathing. The hair on his arms and neck stood up, tingling coldly across his skin.

A sudden crack of static behind him. The scent of sulphur and dust filled his nose. He turned, heart hammering.

Sam was a roiling beacon of crimson light. It spat off him like an oil fire, sharp-edged and hissing. His eyes blazed gold, his head was crowned with writhing rose thorns, and he brandished a spear tipped with a broad blade of deep red iron. He slammed it into the ground and a shockwave punched out through the zombies. Some caught fire, screaming and spinning with it, awful to hear. Others were flung high into the air and plummeted back down, taking out a number of others in the impact. Chasms opened up in the ground and swallowed corpses back down. Though it all, Sam watched with a calm expression marred only by a slight frown of concentration.

When Eliot dragged his eyes away from the bonfire to look at Dean, his breath tightened. The man didn’t blaze - he was a gravity well for light. The shadows were deeper around him, drawing the darkness thrown by his brother’s fire into himself. His eyes were black, his cheekbones stark, and every gesture of his arms sent insubtantial tentacles racing over the ground towards the enemy. Wherever they touched, decay set in. Gravemarkers crumbled to dust; flesh peeled and rotted; eyes dried up and shrivelled in their sockets. Then Dean turned to look at Eliot and grinned, teeth bone-white in the curving penumbra of his lips.

  “Flame on, dude.” His voice was a dry rustle of echoes that made Eliot’s chest ache hollowly.

  Eliot glanced over his shoulder. The nearest zombie, a thin woman with long tangled hair, was barely an arm’s length away. “How?”

  “Make like the Hulk.”

  Eliot ducked smoothly as the zombie-woman slashed viciously curled fingers at his eyes. “What does that even mean?!”

A trench-coated arm reached past him. Castiel pushed his palm against the zombie-woman’s forehead. There was a flare of white light between them, a brief curl of ozone in the air, and she dropped to the ground.

  “Unleash your anger,” the angel said calmly. “There are none here whom you can hurt, save those you are here to hurt. Let go of your restraints.”

Eliot exhaled and shut his eyes. There was always anger burning at his core, had been ever since he could remember. It charred his throat sometimes, ate into his belly, made his head pound. He hadn’t let it control him in a very long time. Not since Basra. He’d worked hard, forging iron-willed restraints, locking it down. And, just like that, these guys wanted to take off all the brakes?

He used the anger of that presumption, the anger with himself at ending up in this situation, the anger with the world for putting this burden on him, to reach deep and drag the coals of rage to the surface. His skin prickled hot-cold, fingers flexing. His mouth was dry and his breath fast. A drumbeat began to sound in the back of his head. His fist clenched around the smooth hilt of a sword.

He looked up.

The world was dim around the edges, but this time those shadows were being drained away towards Dean. He could sense the dry dark presence on his left, balancing him, and the furnace of Sam at his back. He felt how they moved, and how to move with them. He brought his lightning-blade up in a powerful slice. The line of zombies in front of him all stumbled and collapsed, their heads rolling bumpily away over the grass.

  Dean laughed, and Eliot could feel the man’s pleasure curl through his chest. “Beautiful, man. Fucking beautiful.”

They fought as one, and Castiel fought around them. Sam would step left, Dean right, and Eliot turned to stab through the gap between them. Dean swept low, ducking under Eliot’s sword as he swept high. It was powerful and graceful and intoxicating. The anger didn’t dissipate, it burned through him the same, but it was laced with a fierce heated pleasure. Eliot found himself grinning wildly and the grin widened every time he met Dean’s laughing eyes, bright with power and adrenalin.

And then there were four, not three, and had been for some time. Two blazed, napalm and rage; two extinguished, shadow and inevitability. A perfect circle, a perfect balance, unstoppable. They gave no ground, gained none. They moved a step this way, a lunge that, and the dead came to them to die again. Fire and lightning, dust and nothingness. The bodies piled around them, burned and undone, until the zombies were climbing up and over to reach the fight.

A broad-shouldered man in a Union army uniform split apart under his blade, and there was no one behind him. Eliot took a deep breath and his ears popped as if coming out of water. The light and shadows subsided, leaving him empty-handed and trembling inside a ring of corpses. He breathed in again, feeling the instinctive knowledge of the other three fade, and fiercely commanded his knees not to give out. A strong hand grasped his shoulder and he leaned gratefully into the contact. Dean was sweating, hair spiked into disarray, but his eyes were green again and looking at Eliot with admiration.

  “You took your time,” Sam said behind them, a sharp edge to his voice.

Eliot turned. A tall black woman in a leather jacket stood with her arms crossed, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at Sam. Behind her was a sweep of corpses, pale and untouched.

  “I came when I was needed,” she said.

  “Eliot, say hi to Billie,” Dean said. “She’s a Reaper.”

  “Hi,” Eliot said, giving her a nod. “What’s a Reaper?”

  “I take the souls of the dead to where they should go.”

  “Huh. So I’m guessing you’re Death, then.”

  “I am now.” She gave Dean a look that was pure poison and his grip tightened on Eliot’s shoulder.

  “Hey, I got you a promotion. You owe me, like, a fruit basket or something.”

  “I know what I owe you, Dean. Don’t think this new position will save you. It’s merely delaying the inevitable.”

  Castiel stepped swiftly between them, silver knife held low. “Back off,” he growled.

  She smiled contemptuously. “You think I fear you, little seraph? If your father hadn’t decided to walk the earth again, and your precious Winchesters hadn’t let his sister out to do the same, none of this would be happening. The balance of the world would still be stable. I won’t hesitate to send you into the void after them if you get in my way.” She looked around the graveyard and gave a little nod of satisfaction. “I’ll see you all again soon, I’m sure.” With that, she vanished.

  Eliot blinked. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Office politics,” Dean said dismissively. “I killed her boss. She ain’t my biggest fan.”

  Sam snorted. “She’s promised to unmake our souls when we die, Dean.”

  “Good thing this new gig’s got a side-order of immortality then.”

  “You heard what she just said about delaying the inevitable.”

  “One bridge at a time, Sammy. Let’s sort out the night of the living dead before we handle the pissed-off entity of eternal nothingness.” Dean gave Eliot’s shoulder a final shake and let go. “You were awesome, dude.”

Eliot resisted the urge to cover the spot where Dean’s hand had been with his own. He wasn’t feeling as exhausted this time, which was probably because they’d been sharing energy between the four of them, but he was already missing that intense connection. There was a whisper of it still at the edge of his senses. He could feel Dean’s refreshing coolness against his skin, the static prickle of proximity that tugged at the back of his throat. It wasn’t enough. He was alone in his body again, and it felt… incomplete. Like the gap where a tooth used to be. There was a slight dizziness, as if his inner balance had been knocked off kilter. He needed the weight of Dean’s hand back on his shoulder in order to walk in a straight line.

  He shook his hair back and grimaced. “I need a shower. And a drink.”

  “Hell, yes.” Dean looked at Castiel, who had finally put his knife away. “Bunker?”

The angel nodded and reached out both hands. Dean grabbed hold of Eliot again as Sam stepped in. Eliot’s stomach lurched once at the contact, and again as the world shifted around him. The graveyard, with its shattered stones and carpet of bodies, flickered and darkened into a dim wood-panelled library. Bookshelves lined the walls, cluttered with odd bits and pieces. Tables ran down the centre of the high-ceilinged room, flanked by wooden chairs. At the end, beyond a stone arch, Eliot could see a metal staircase behind what looked like an old-fashioned map table.

  Dean grinned at him and gestured grandly with one arm. “Welcome to our humble abode. Let me pour you a drink.”


	5. Together, They Ride

Dean grabbed a couple of bottles from the kitchen and led Eliot down a long corridor to the living quarters.

  “Nothing like a cold beer under hot water,” he said, pushing open a door.

  Eliot stared at the expansive shower room, its six cubicles beautifully tiled. “You live in an actual evil underground lair.”

  Dean laughed. “Not evil, dude. It’s the Batcave. Awesome, right?”

  “I think my entire apartment could fit in here.”

  “One of the few perks of this gig. Catch.” Dean pulled out a towel from a cabinet and chucked it over. “Sammy and me used to be on the road the whole time. Motels and diners. This is better. Also, the water pressure here’s fucking sweet.”

He casually shrugged off his overshirt and peeled the black t-shirt over his head. Eliot choked slightly on his sip of beer at the sight of a beautiful chest that swept smoothly down from well-defined pecs, over toned abs, to where a dark-gold happy trail disappeared beneath Dean’s waistband. Eliot was suddenly, tinglingly, aware of the absence in his body where, less than an hour earlier, he had felt Dean’s energy. His palms slipped on the cool glass bottle and he swallowed.

Dean glanced up and caught him staring. A satisfied smile curled the edge of that delicious mouth. Dean dropped the t-shirt in a heap on the bench and slid one hand slowly over his belt buckle.

  “Thought you wanted to get cleaned up?”

  Eliot clenched his jaw against the sudden bloom of heat in his groin. “I can wait my turn.”

  “There’s six whole showers here, man.” He spread a muscled arm wide and dragged his gaze up Eliot’s body. “Don’t let me stop you.”

There was a challenge in those green eyes, heavy and thrilling. A spark of excitement flared in Eliot’s chest, mixed with annoyance. He wasn’t some blushing virgin. If Dean wanted to play, Eliot could more than hold his own. Pun fucking intended. 

He put down his beer and deliberately met Dean’s eyes, letting his hunger show. Dean breathed in sharply through his nose and the smile spread like a cheshire cat. Eliot let his leather jacket drop heavily to the floor and tugged off his shirt. The fingers of Dean’s right hand flared, as if aching to reach out and touch, but he didn’t move a step. 

  “Y’know,” he said casually, drawing the leather of his belt slowly through the buckle, “the old Horsemen used to ride in pairs. Pestilence and Famine had a kinda affinity. One nearly always... came... after the other.” 

  Eliot pushed his hair back, skin shivering as he brushed the nape of his neck. “You saying… you and me...?”

  “Peace and Entropy. We go together, man.” The belt was free. Dean popped the button of his jeans.

  Determined not to let him have it all his own way, Eliot slid a hand down into his pants. He cupped the half-hard length, eyes narrowing, and dropped his voice into a growl. “I could feel you, in the cemetery. Inside my head.”

  Dean’s nostrils flared and his eyes glittered dangerously. He pressed hard against the crotch of his jeans. “You’re incredible when you fight. Smooth moves. Gorgeous.”

  “You get high off it.” The memory of the endorphin rush made Eliot’s eyelids flicker. He leisurely dragged his hand up the hot, silken heat of his cock, sending a wave of pleasure through his body. “Made me want to… I didn’t want to stop.”

  Dean slicked his tongue over his lips. “You don’t back down, do you?” he said huskily, and slid his zipper open.

  “You’d be disappointed if I did.” 

With a wicked smile, Eliot dropped his pants and kicked them away. Dean took a deep breath, pupils spreading, and Eliot could feel the weight of that emerald gaze stroking across his stomach, thighs, groin. Then Dean grinned, hot and hungry, predatorial. As dangerous as him.

  “I ain’t disappointed.” 

He slid his jeans down and neither was Eliot. The man was a work of art. Lean muscle curved invitingly under warmly freckled skin, whose scars enhanced rather than marred. This wasn’t a partner who needed to be sheltered or handled gently. He was a warrior, full of drive and power, who would push and grapple and give as good as he got. Someone who understood that sometimes, especially after a tough fight, a little pain was necessary as a confirmation of life. If Eliot hit him, he’d take the blow and keep coming. And if he hit Eliot, it would be hard enough to feel. 

Dean was hard, cock rearing proudly up, flushed and hungry and pearling at the tip. He wrapped a strong hand around himself and gave a lazy tug, never looking away from Eliot. Daring him. A tingle of tension prickled up Eliot’s spine and the muscles in his groin tightened. He took two swift steps forward, gripped Dean’s cock firmly, and propelled the man backwards into a shower stall. Dean went with a gasp, both hands digging into Eliot’s shoulders. His shoulders thudded against the wall and Eliot stroked him twice, adding a filthy twist at the tip. 

  “Fuck,” Dean growled, bass purr rumbling around the shower tiles. 

His nails bit into Eliot’s skin, pin-pricks of pain that lit up the nerve endings like Christmas lights. Eliot leaned into the curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and musk, and bit down hard. Dean arched under him, muscles straining, swallowing a moan. One hand let go and scrabbled for the shower controls. Hot water punched into them, the hiss filling the cubicle, and Eliot closed his eyes to savour the heat. Dean gave a hoarse chuckle.

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “I was a soldier. Of course I’ve done this before.”

  “‘Was’?”

  “I’d retired.” The anger bubbled up again. Eliot shoved a knee between Dean’s thighs, throwing his opponent’s balance off. His spare hand curled around Dean’s neck, forcing his chin up. “I have an apartment, flatmates. A regular coffee place. I read the fucking morning newspaper. Then you show up, with this Horsemen crap, and suddenly I’m fighting off zombies!” His other hand sped up on Dean’s cock as his voice rose, the hard heat of it slick with water.

  Dean’s green eyes glinted at him from under spiked lashes. His mouth curled with wicked amusement. “You’re welcome,” he purred, a breathless hitch in his voice. 

He shifted his grip, sliding fingers deep into Eliot’s hair and pulling tight. Tension crackled across Eliot’s scalp and down his spine, making him gasp. Then a strong, calloused grip wrapped around his cock, matching him stroke for stroke, and he hadn’t felt so awake, so on fire and vital and alive, since Fallujah. There was lightning in his veins. Water pounded into his back and side, tiny lances of heat and pressure. Dean rutted forward against his thigh and their cocks rubbed together, an intense burst of contact, touching, retreating, and surging back to clash again. Eliot could feel the explosion building, filling him up with tension and hunger and visceral pleasure. He reached for it, wanting it, needing it, chasing after that completed sensation when he could feel Dean inside him, sparking with pleasure and joy and partnership, making him whole, and what the fuck, he’d never needed anyone else to feel complete, the thought should send him running, but instead he stretched out his palms and drank in the skin of this tall, beautiful stranger who knew him better than anyone else, somehow, who arched and writhed under his touch, commanding and begging and purring as they dragged each other over the edge to where light and shadow flared together and there was only the sharp, gasping, clenching pulse of feeling alive. 

Eliot floated for long, peaceful seconds. Slow strokes down his back eased him back into his body gently. He peeled himself away from the crook of Dean’s neck and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. 

  Dean gave him a lazy, contented smile. “Well, that was the least complicated shower sex I ever had.”

  Eliot took the soap and indulged himself by dragging it slowly across Dean’s chest. “Shower sex is only complicated if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Them’s fighting words.”

  “I can take you down any time, pretty boy.”

  Dean’s eyelids lowered dangerously and his hands tightened over Eliot’s hips. “Bring it on, bitch.”

Eliot licked his lips, unable to look away from that full mouth, just asking for him to claim it. He leaned forward, chest sliding against Dean’s with a shiver, reaching up to caress his jaw.

  “Um, guys?” A rat-tat-tat at the door. 

  Eliot flinched and retreated as Dean’s head fell back against the tiles. “Fuck off, Sam!”

  “Hey, you’re not the only one who got zombie goop fucking everywhere, asshole. I gave you one round, but can’t you move it to the bedroom for the next?”

  Dean sighed and shut off the water. “We upgrade from a single motel room to an entire friggin’ bunker and he’s still cockblocking me.” 

  “And you’d better have cleaned the damn shower, Dean, I swear to God!” Sam yelled as they towelled off. 

  Dean wrapped the towel around his waist, picked up his unfinished beer, and opened the door. “Okay, Samantha, you can wash your hair now.”

Eliot was marginally amused to see that Sam couldn’t quite look at him, and there was the hint of a blush in the man’s cheeks. Who would’ve guessed that the Horseman of Chaos was body shy? 

  Sam turned his back on them and busied himself with getting out a clean towel. “I’ll see you in the library in twenty minutes. Cas reckons he’s found the source of the imbalance, near Giza in Egypt. He says if we get there in the next twenty-four hours we should be able to shut this apocalypse down before it really gets going.” 

  “Awesome.” Dean looked at Eliot with a grin, all white teeth and green eyes and shadow. “Think we can keep ourselves busy for twenty minutes?”

Eliot had never needed anyone else to feel complete, still didn’t, but he  _ wanted _ , for the first time since he could remember there was something he hungered for, and so what if it came with a little (okay, a lot) weird? The world was filling up with angels and zombies and fuck knew what else, and he stood in the middle of it, a Horseman of the goddamn apocalypse, fucking defender of humanity, so surely he was allowed this. 

  “I got a few ideas.”

He felt Dean’s pleasure curl through his chest, and knew he’d never be alone again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving kudos - it makes writers happy. :-)


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